


The Adventure of the Doctor's Heart

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, First Time, M/M, Requited Love, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes has observed much of Watson's habits and tastes over time, which is why it surprises him when his friend objects strangely to a folk song sung at the conclusion of a case. Disturbed by the Doctor's unexpected display of emotion, Holmes becomes determined to lift his spirits by any means necessary, with mixed results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://methylviolet10b.livejournal.com/profile)[**methylviolet10b**](http://methylviolet10b.livejournal.com/) for the [ACD Holmesfest (Canon Fanworks) Exchange](http://acd-holmesfest.livejournal.com/). I am much obliged to[](http://tweedisgood.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://tweedisgood.livejournal.com/) **tweedisgood** for Brit-picking, Victori-correcting, and many relevant recommendations.

Watson may say that I am a man worth study, but I object to the notion that I am the only one worth studying. He fascinates me; he always has. Ever since I met him at Bart's and he looked at me as if I were brilliant— I am, of course, but from him the praise always pleases me— I have been utterly captivated. I am constantly surprised by him, and every time it happens I wonder that I haven't exhausted him yet. There are unplumbed depths to John Watson, and I mean to discover them.

He has, for instance, a very eclectic taste in music. He will listen to _literally_ anything. It baffles me. Most times, I can take the measure of a fellow by what he chooses when he goes to hear music. I, for instance, am fond primarily of afternoon and evening concerts: I don't like anything distracting me from my appreciation of the music itself. I don't need sets or plots or costumes or even singing. All I want is the solitary 'cello, alone on stage, its pure voice booming, or a full orchestra in perfect harmony, leading me along by my ears. The good Inspector Lestrade, however, eschews the classics and will exclusively attend tawdry musicals. That tells me a great deal about his upbringing, his salary, his free time and therefore his profession, as well as his current family status and the conversations he has over luncheon.

Watson, however, will go to anything. He sits beside me quite happily at a Vivaldi concert, and he babbles with Lestrade about the latest Gilbert and Sullivan. Together, they went to an opening performance of _The Grand Duke_ in the spring, and he came back all smiles. The play was dreadful, absolutely dreadful! I couldn't sit through it myself. I heard Messers Gilbert and Sullivan lost a tremendous amount of money on the thing. The very next month, we attended a performance of Bach's _St. Luke Passion_ , which Watson found perfectly delightful.

It tells me so much and so little about him. He doesn't make sense, and I cannot help but adore him for it.

Perhaps it is not that his taste in music is all-encompassing, but that it is simply terrible. He does not discriminate in the slightest.

Well, that is not entirely true. Some weeks ago, at the height of summer (though the heat has not abated, unfortunately, in that time), we were called away to Newcastle upon Tyne, which for us was very far afield. We traveled first to Leeds on an early morning express, and then changed trains there for Newcastle. It was a terribly long distance to go for the utterly senseless case we had been engaged upon— locked room murder, that sort of thing, completely trite when it came down to it— but Watson was so pleased to be out of our rooms and on an adventure that for several hours during our interminable journey, I almost couldn't take my eyes off of him.

Some days, I am very glad he is so painfully unobservant; if he had noticed the way I was devoted to him, I would have been lost. Watson is the best sort of upstanding citizen, and I am the worst sort of invert. Certainly he might go in for a bit of burglary, or a long night of lurking, but I doubted very much that he would stand for being pursued by a fellow such as myself. And so I kept my nature under lock and key, and he was none the wiser.

The case in Newcastle was solved within a matter of days. They had been right to call me, of course, for it was not a suicide as it appeared but a carefully calculated murder. Someone on the local force had done a bit of proper observation and noticed that things were not all exactly as they seemed, and through a series of recommendations the case was brought to me. By careful inspection of the windowsill and the ghastly bruises on the woman's neck, I discerned that instead of hanging herself— which is how it certainly appeared, what with being discovered hanged by the neck in an attic room with a chair knocked on its side below her— she had been strangled by hand and then hanged afterwards, as a blind. The perpetrator had locked the door and exited the room by the upper window and crawled spider-like along the eaves. In a bit of bad luck, the window came crashing down in the wind and actually locked itself, making it appear as though the dead woman had been the only occupant.

The murderer, the woman's brother, had killed her in a squabble over her lover. He was intent on obeying their late father's wishes by marrying her to a local gentleman, but she was already pregnant by a farm hand and was determined to be wed before her child arrived. Her pregnancy was very recent, and that was why the constabulary had not noticed it, but my Watson spotted the signs in a moment. The woman's death, Watson eventually claimed, was an accident, but choking a person to unconsciousness is not entirely accidental. Stringing them up by the throat after they've expired even less so.

I am getting away from myself. I have recorded the details of the crime in a more public notebook, the one I keep in the bookshelf by my desk, while this one is meant to be reserved for my personal reflections. It was a very clever set of deductions, if I do say so myself, but I meant this narrative to be about the case of Watson's musical tastes.

The murder case was concluded finally with an arrest in the early afternoon after a long chase over the moor, and we decided not to bother with the evening train to Leeds. It would take us most of the day to get home to Baker Street, and Watson expressed an interest in experiencing the music that was advertised to be played at the inn where we were staying.

"We're as close to my boyhood home as I've been in fifteen years," he told me, as we walked back together from the estate.

"Northumberland Fusiliers," I said, folding my hands behind my back.

"Quite so," he said.

I glanced at him and caught a hint of a smile under his moustache. "Where did you grow up?" I asked.

"Hexam," he said. "Well, some ways outside of it. My father was a mining engineer."

"I might never have known," I said. "Your accent hardly shows."

"Does it show at all?" he asked, looking up. "Blast, I had thought I'd gotten rid of it. What with school, and the army, and bloody _India._ Not to mention living with you, who can change your voice in a second to suit your purpose."

"Only when you are very emotional," I said.

He was blushing. "Well, I'm sure you had my North Country origins pegged in a minute."

"Ten," I admitted. "But that was the day we moved in together, not the day I met you. You had a bit of trouble getting your biggest case up the stairs, and you were swearing at it and your leg."

Watson laughed. "Fair enough. It was a terribly large case."

I had to look away. The sun was shining, the afternoon was warm and the breeze was cool, and he was beautiful in his light linen suit and his soft cap, his handsome face open and amused. I was still quite high on the successful conclusion of my far-afield case, and I was in danger of betraying myself out of carelessness. I tamped down my joy ruthlessly.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

"Famished," Watson replied. "That was rather exciting, wasn't it? I never suspected her brother might have done it."

"Never?" I asked. "Really, Watson; the moment you knew she was pregnant, you might have suspected it was a family affair."

He shrugged, unashamed of his status as my foil. "I thought maybe the man who deflowered her might have done it to protect them both."

"That certainly would have been tragic," I said, "but no."

"Obviously not." That time he was a bit prickled. He sighed. "At any rate, all that running about has quite piqued my interest in supper. What about you?"

"I could eat a horse," I said. Now that the case was concluded, my body reminded me of its tiresome needs, and my stomach was growling.

"I don't think they serve that," Watson said, smiling once more, "but I could arrange for a sheep's stomach."

"Eaugh, please don't," I said, making a face, and was rewarded with his joyful laugh.

"You're like a child," he said. "Bread and milk it is."

"Bugger off."

\---

Supper was being served when we arrived at the inn, footsore and energised by our walk, so we quickly found a place to sit and hailed the inn keeper, a Mr Todd. He came over, tray already in hand, and laid out a fine array of meats and cheeses, a dish of cooked squash with garlic, and a loaf of hearty rustic bread.

"I heard Mr Tunbridge has been arrested," he said to us. "Killed his sister, he did."

"He certainly did," I agreed, helping myself to the meat and the squash.

"He always did have a quick temper," Todd said, shaking his head. "And she always was a lovely girl."

"Yes," I said, "well, quick tempers and lovely girls rarely come to good ends."

"Holmes," Watson chided.

I raised my eyebrows at him, but said no more on the subject. Todd bid us enjoy our meal, and we ate in relative silence, both of us making up for what had become a weekend of excitement.

When we had finished, the band that was promised had arrived and was setting up in a cleared corner of the parlour. The inn had filled with locals, and it took a few minutes for Watson's request for two Scotch whiskies, neat, to be heard. When they finally arrived on our table, the band had already started to play.

Overall, I found it somewhat plebeian but generally enjoyable. Watson was having a splendid time, singing along to a number of folk songs he recognised from what seemed to be a long time since, and striking up conversations with our neighbours. I nursed my scotch through three of his, glad for the opportunity to observe my Watson in a new situation. He is the friendliest chap I know, good at making small talk, and I am alternately envious that he can do it so easily, and glad that I don't have to.

The band— made up of fiddle, tin whistle, and Jews' harp— played for over an hour, and I found myself losing the train of the music occasionally, my thoughts drifting. I watched Watson for a while as he got a bit drunk, and then I watched the crowd. I made private inferences about people around me to keep myself entertained, and for a while even closed my eyes to better hear the music without distraction. It wasn't what I would have chosen for an evening in London, but out here it was rather nice.

When I opened my eyes again, coming back to myself, I looked over to Watson and got the shock of my life. He was staring into the distance, his gaze unfocused, and the expression on his face was that of heartbreaking sorrow. There was a tear running down his cheek, and he did not bother to brush it away. Horrified that something had happened, I glanced at the crowd around us and found that they too were looking a bit melancholy, but none so deeply sad as my Watson. The song, I realised as I listened, was about a man who had lost his sweetheart at sea, and who had never taken the risk of telling her that he loved her.

I didn't know what to do. I had never seen Watson so affected, and the analytical part of me just wanted to watch his emotional reaction to its conclusion. The other part of me knew he was in pain, somehow, and wanted it to stop immediately. I reached out and touched the back of his hand, and said, "My dear boy."

He jerked in surprise, pulling sharply away from me, and wiped his face with both hands. "Holmes," he said, as if he hadn't expected to find me still sitting beside him. "Forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," I said. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine," he said. He pushed away his glass and stood up, drawing his handkerchief from his sleeve. "I think I shall go to bed. Goodnight."

"Wait," I said, reaching again, but he was beyond my grasp and he slipped away into the crowd. The song was not even finished. I was now even more confused than I had been. The only explanation I had was that the song spoke to him so profoundly, so intensely, because he knew exactly what that felt like.

Watson had been in love, and he had lost her.

I waited a good ten minutes, fidgeting and wondering, until I allowed myself to stand up from the table and make my way from the crowded common room. The stairwell to the upper floor was dark, and for some reason I climbed it as silently as I could, as though worried Watson would hear me coming.

I reached the room we were sharing, knocked softly, and opened the door. The room was as dark as the hall, and the shape of Watson was in his bed. He was feigning sleep: I could hear it in the slightly ragged pattern of his breathing.

I couldn't help myself. "Watson?" I whispered.

No answer. I was not surprised. Quietly I undressed, slipped on my nightshirt, and crawled into my own narrow bed. I fell into a fitful sleep, exhausted by my various forms of abstinence during the case and worried about my friend.

\---

In the morning, I awoke to an empty room. Watson's bed was made and his belongings were gone, and I leapt to my feet in horror. He had _left,_ I was sure of it.

I threw on my clothes and crammed my things into my valise, and took the stairs to the common room at something near a run. The first train to Leeds was at 8:36, and it was just turning 8:00 now. If I hurried, I could catch him.

Watson, of course, was sitting at a table beside the window, calmly eating his breakfast. I skidded to a halt and stared.

"Good morning, Holmes," he said calmly, dabbing at his mouth and moustache with a napkin. "I have worried you; forgive me."

"No," I said, crossing to him and sinking into the seat opposite him. "There is nothing to forgive. The concert—"

"I find I did not enjoy it as much as I had expected to. I beg you will forget the whole matter." He turned his attention deliberately back to buttering his toast.

The conversation was obviously over. I silently vowed not to bring it up, until I could fully explain his reaction the night before. I would find out, if for no other reason than my own information, who this lost love had been and what had happened to her. I hated the idea that there were things about my Watson that I did not understand.

We ate breakfast quickly and in silence, paid for our room, and walked side-by-side to the train station. The 8:36 to Leeds arrived a few minutes after we did, and we took our customary place in a First Class carriage. Watson took my bag from me and stowed it above our heads, and we sat across from one another as the train pulled out of the station.

He was avoiding my eyes. Certainly, he looked innocent enough gazing out the window, but I was staring at him with some intensity, and he was ignoring me. That tactic was not going to work. I sank back into my seat and crossed my arms over my chest. It was not a child's petulant sulk, but it was as close as I could get.

\---

We spent our long ride back to London in relative silence. We changed trains at Leeds and again at Leicester, and arrived finally at Baker Street, exhausted by a day of inactivity, to a warm supper and cool sheets. Watson did not stay up with me as he usually did, but turned in just after ten o'clock, claiming a headache.

Something had to be done. His mood had not improved in the slightest since last night, though I had not bothered him all day about the matter. I had seen him weep before— during our first years of cohabitation, he had had horrible nightmares of the war, and more than once I had woken him and calmed him in the middle of the night— but he had never been ashamed of it then.

Perhaps that wasn't the problem, I mused, curled up in my favourite armchair, a cigarette neglected between my fingers. He wasn't afraid to be seen with tears in his eyes, certainly not by me, so perhaps it was the subject of his grief that caused him such anxiety.

 _Could he have got a girl pregnant?_ I wondered. _And then left her behind to go to war?_

No, that wasn't like him at all. He might have been called the scourge of three continents in his army days, but throwing a lass over for the call of battle wasn't like him. He hadn't loved the war, and he had a great appreciation for women. When he had been courting the late Mrs Watson, the girl Mary, he had been devoted to the cause, and devoted to her. It had nearly broken my heart, him moving out of Baker Street, but her passing had nearly broken his. When I returned to London after my three years abroad, I found him a man much changed by grief. His strong will had triumphed, ultimately, and his spirits had improved rapidly after our mutual return to our old shared quarters.

Could it have been her he was thinking of? Hardly appropriate— it wasn't as though he'd never had the chance to admit he loved her. He'd bloody well married her. No, she wasn't the one the song reminded him of.

If I couldn't determine the cause of his emotional distress, I would do my best to alleviate it. That would be my other angle of attack. Perhaps, with enough persuasion, he might open himself to me.

I went to bed with a new plan of action, feeling incredibly pleased with myself. Tomorrow was Monday, and I had a new case already. As I was falling asleep, I found myself imagining what Watson would call this one. Not that I would ever let him find out.

 _The Case of the Distressed Doctor_ , I thought. No, _The Adventure of the Doctor's Heart._

\---

Watson was already up and about when I arose, and we ate a late breakfast together. There was a bit of post to go through— a telegram from Mycroft inviting me to dinner, a letter for Watson from a grateful patient, a bill for the tailor I had visited to see to a few of my disguises— and after I had written a reply to Mycroft declining on the grounds that I very much did not want to spend an evening this week at his club, I made a mental note to make a reservation for dinner at Wilton's for Watson and myself instead.

I also added _take Watson to the theatre_ to the list, just below _gifts, buy him gifts._

He might get suspicious about the gifts. I amended it to just one gift. Something small. Perhaps flowers, as well, if his mood had not improved by Thursday. He was the romantic sort; he might appreciate that.

Watson was watching me when I looked up again, and he was smiling.

"Do you have another case already, Holmes?" he asked.

I started. How could he have known?

The surprise on my face must have shown, for he said, "You are very preoccupied this morning, that is all."

"No," I said quickly, "there is no new case. I am only considering the facts of a few old ones to keep myself amused."

"Well," said he, "I hope a new one comes along quickly. And one that keeps us close to home this time."

"I have no doubt," I said, sitting up and accepting another cup of coffee, "that the denizens of London will get up to their usual trouble in no time, and we will have a nice murder within a few days."

He was hiding a smile in a disapproving glare. "There is no such thing as a 'nice' murder, Holmes."

I smirked. "There are usually two parties who would agree with you," I said.

He huffed his disapproval, but I knew he was just as interested in word from the Yard.

I stood up and crossed the room, plucking my Strad from its case on the way. I took my place by the window and, feigning indifference, began to tune the violin. Once I was satisfied with its sound, and with Watson's attention being now firmly fixed on me, I began to play.

Watson has always loved to listen to me play. I do not say it in any sort of fit of arrogance. I should like to believe he does have a discerning ear for decent music, because the look on his face when I play for him is always one of deep appreciation. I have a generous repertoire of pieces to play, and that morning I moved from one to another with scarcely a pause. After a while, perhaps half an hour, Watson moved finally from the table to his desk, presumably to begin to arrange his notes about the case we had just finished. He picked up his pen and shuffled his papers around, but for a long time he merely sat, having fallen into a brown study.

My attempt at cheering him up was not working. To draw him out again, I switched from the violin part of a concerto to a popular tune I knew he would recognise, but it only brought me a small smile. He shook himself and returned his attention to his work. I had been hoping for more.

Well, I wasn't giving up. The music would provide accompaniment for him as he wrote, and I hoped it would influence him subtly. I played until my well-calloused fingers ached, and I couldn't think of another piece. Watson alternated between working deliberately and staring off into space, and once or twice I caught him looking at me, watching me play. I closed my eyes at those times, immersing myself in the music, and hoping that he would never stop looking.

When I opened my eyes again, invariably his attention would have wandered.

When I finally stopped, Watson looked up, surprised.

"My dear fellow," he said, glancing at the clock, "you've been at it almost three hours."

"Oh," I said, "have I indeed? I hadn't noticed; I was quite lost there for a while."

He smiled, but it was not the bright, cheerfully indulgent smile my Watson would give me on a good day. "I saw that," he said softly. "Should you like to take a break before you wear your fingers to the bone?"

I set the violin down carefully in its case, and went to the mantle for a pipe. I lit it, sucked, and sighed a cloud of smoke into the air. Watson wrinkled his nose and sprinkled sand over his latest page of notes to dry the ink.

It would be very easy to let us both pass the day without much interaction. We frequently sat together for hours on end, not speaking, absorbed in our own work. It was the mark of a strong friendship, I believed, to be able to occupy the same space without needing to communicate verbally. We didn't need to entertain each other, and for that I was grateful.

But today I wanted things to be different.

"I say," said I, "would you like to go for a walk? I'm feeling a bit cooped up after all that fresh air this week-end."

Watson stared at me as though I'd suggested we light the house on fire. "You?" he said. "You hate fresh air."

"I do not," I protested, admittedly taking another draw on my pipe.

He snorted with amusement and stood up. "You complained the whole way to Newcastle that the country air would make you ill."

"I was wrong," I said. "I frequently am, though you never see fit to write it down. Besides, we are home in London now, and it would do me good to fill my lungs once more with the smog of the city."

"Very well," he said. "Let me get my hat."

"And we should stop for lunch," I said, as an afterthought.

Our walk led us southwards along Baker Street to Oxford Street, whereupon we turned right towards Marble Arch, and then south again along Park Lane. Watson has always had a strange fascination with the mansions there— I suspect it has something to do with his self-named North Country origins. Even with all his worldly experience, people in large houses baffle him. Quitting Park Lane, we strolled through Green Park, and eventually found a small restaurant on King Street at which to partake of a light luncheon.

Afterwards, as we left, I insinuated my hand into the crook of Watson's elbow, and we took our time making our way back to Baker Street. The day was pleasantly warm, though humid, and by the time we were back in our sitting room the day had sufficed to raise my spirits considerably.

Watson, however, had not felt the same effects. He declared that he had enjoyed the walk immensely, but I could tell by the way his shoulders drooped and he worried at his moustache that all was not as eternally joyful as I believed it to be.

I was discouraged by my efforts lack of impact, but any more exuberance today would be looked upon with suspicion. I immersed myself in a chemical experiment for the rest of the afternoon and evening, turning down supper with a wave of my hand. Watson rolled his eyes and devoured his food with familiar enthusiasm, and I decided that, at least, meant progress.

\---

The next day, Tuesday, I took him to the theatre in the afternoon. No musical comedy this time, just a play, and I delighted in hearing him laugh. The exercise was somewhat trying on my end, since I prefer the melodious voice of a stringed instrument to the braying of actors. Watson noticed, of course, about halfway through the first act, and leaned over to hiss, "Are you having any fun at all?" in my ear.

I assured him that I was having a grand time, the play was very good, et cetera and so on, but he snorted in disbelief. When the lights came up for the interval, he turned to me and said, "We could leave, if you like."

"No, you're enjoying it," I said. "We'll certainly stay."

He narrowed his eyes at me slightly, assessing, and then said, "If you insist." He knew I was indulging him.

I patted his knee. "I do, my dear fellow. I do."

The rest of the play was bearable, and by the end Watson was on his feet applauding, so I joined him up there.

"Thank you," he said, as we left.

"It was fairly tolerable," I admitted. "The mystery was quite nonsensical, I hope you know."

"Quite," Watson agreed, tapping his walking stick on the pavement as we walked. "Twins usually do make for a perfectly ridiculous misconception."

"Farcical," I said.

"Absurd."

"Impossible."

"Self-indulgent."

By this time we had reached the corner, and I hailed a cab. As it pulled up, I said to Watson, "Would you like to go and have a drink, now?"

"I would like to go home, I think," he said, "and have a drink there. Will that suit?"

"Very well," I said, and gave the driver our address.

Mrs Hudson had made lemonade in our absence, and we drank it gratefully, full of ice, by the open window that looked out onto the street. The early evening traffic was light, mostly pedestrians, and Watson had a look of pleased serenity on his face.

"It is an oasis," I said. "I'm glad for your suggestion, too."

"I was just—" he said, and narrowed his eyes at me. "Show off."

I smirked. "You're like a book, old boy."

His visage shuttered suddenly, his expression darkening. He looked away from me, resisting the urge to tell me off, but for what I couldn't imagine. Sure, I had deduced his thoughts any number of times from where he looked, and for how long, but he had never had any profound objection. I stayed very still, awaiting the result of his internal monologue.

"Yes," he said finally, "I suppose I am."

"Forgive me," I said carefully. "You looked so happy just then."

"I know," Watson said, touching my elbow. "I was. I am. You bring me joy, that is all."

 _Then what was that look?_ I wanted to ask, but I knew better.

\---

On Wednesday, I went out early on an errand and was returning when Watson appeared. He raised an eyebrow, but I shrugged and hid the parcel in my coat, and he did not press the matter. It is fortunate that I am known to be an eccentric and an early morning foray into the heart of London does not go remarked upon.

We had a dinner reservation for that evening. Normally, we just drop in at Mancini's, but I wanted to treat him to a proper, dining room meal, and not at his club. When I suggested we go out that evening, he readily agreed and moved to put on his jacket.

"Perhaps," I said, staying his hand, "your black suit coat would not go amiss."

Watson eyed me askance. "Really," he said. He looked down at what he was wearing— perfectly respectable grey tweed, his favourite— and back up at me. Without another word he turned and disappeared upstairs, to return some five or six minutes later in his good tails, ruby waistcoat, and with his top hat under his arm.

"Too much?" he asked. I could tell he had just brushed it.

"Not at all," I replied. I had taken the time to don the same garb, and I caught sight of us in the mirror as we turned towards the door. We were a pretty pair of peacocks, I thought, in our finery. We rarely had occasion to dress up like this— cases never counted, regardless of who our audience might be; I spent enough time crawling around on the floor looking at skirting that I knew better— and it was a treat to see Watson in his best.

Better to see him in his uniform dress, which I knew he still had, stored away upstairs, but that was unlikely. He doubted (quite rightly) that he would fit into it, and indulging so obvious a fantasy about my friend would be inadvisable.

We managed to get a cab at the corner of Baker Street and Watson put his hand under my elbow as I alighted. I called the address to the driver, and his face warmed with pleasure. He smiled at me across the dim carriage.

"Wilton's at St. James," he said.

"Quite so, my boy," I replied, patting his knee. "I thought I should treat you to something nice this week."

"Holmes," he said plaintively, "why? What has got into you? Is this about Newcastle?"

I cleared my throat, suddenly self-conscious, as the cab jolted into motion. He was not a fool, and I had been caught out. "Yes," I admitted, knowing it was better not to try to endure his questioning.

He sighed deeply and rubbed a hand across his face. He took off his hat and put it beside him. "I begged you to forget that."

"I could not," I said firmly. "I did not wish to bring it again to your attention, but I thought you needed a little bit of cheering, this week."

He rolled his eyes and I could see a smile hiding beneath his moustache. "You do too much," he said. "Was that what the play was about?"

"Yes, that too," I said. "I only wanted to see you smile."

He touched my knee gently, as if it were I who needed reassurance. "Thank you," he said. "It's quite unnecessary, though. My mood has quite returned to normal. It was a momentary lapse, I swear it. I don't wish you to concern yourself with something so trivial."

I shrugged. He was lying. My case of the Doctor's Heart was not coming along very successfully, in that I had not yet divined the cause of his distress, but his mood had certainly improved overall. Nonetheless, I doubted that it had been so 'momentary' as he claimed. A shadow still lurked behind his eyes when he thought I wasn't looking, and I had been careful to observe without seeming to as much as possible over the last few days.

\---

Continued in [Part II](http://acd-holmesfest.livejournal.com/5392.html)


	2. Chapter 2

We arrived at Wilton's a few minutes short of our reserved time, and were shown to a table in a quiet corner, near the window. The window was cracked open to admit a fine breeze, and it made the candle on the table gutter at intervals.

Watson was smiling to himself as I ordered. We shared a roast pheasant between ourselves, and I obligingly let Watson have both the legs. He also ate most of the chips. The pheasant was accompanied by a Beaune that Watson approved of with great enthusiasm, and which we managed to finish as I nibbled off his serving of plum duff.

When we finally sat back from our plates, well satisfied, Watson sighed deeply and toasted me with his glass.

"For a man who abhors a meal," he said, "you have a fine sense of how to treat a fellow to a proper dinner."

"I do not abhor a meal," I protested. His face was pink with the wine, and he had loosened his cravat slightly. The sun was setting finally at nearly eight o'clock, and its fading light was giving way to the candles and gas light inside the restaurant. I could see the barest hint of his throat, gleaming gold, and I turned my gaze aside. "I only avoid the distraction while I am working, you know that."

"Better than most."

"I have a gift for you."

"Oh," he said, "no, you mustn't. Holmes, it isn't my birthday, and it isn't Christmas, and you mustn't be buying me things."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "Any occasion is one for a gift."

"Newcastle," Watson swore, under his breath, but he sighed in resignation. "Very well," he said. "And I shall apologise for my ingratitude."

I pulled the package I had procured earlier that day out of my pocket and offered it to him. He took it carefully, embarrassed by me and my sentiment, and opened the small box. Inside that was another box, this one velvet with a hinge, and he glanced up at me reproachfully before he opened that as well.

A pair of cufflinks lay inside on the cotton wool, and a set of matching collar studs. They were silver with opal stones laid in them, simple and black and shining. Watson's mouth dropped open, and he looked from me to the studs a few times. I beamed. I had surprised him.

"Holmes, you can't," he said finally.

"I certainly can," I said. "The cheque we earned last month in that matter of the satin slipper was generous enough to cover the rent and to be put into savings, and the rest I thought should be for you."

"You," he said, "are a madman."

"Tell me you aren't pleased," I challenged.

"I'm very pleased," he said, "and I'm very grateful, thank you." He put the box away into his pocket and shook his head at me.

After a pause, in which he took another sip of wine, I said, "You were in love."

He closed his eyes and put the glass down. "Yes," he said. "Once or twice."

"It wasn't Mary," I said. "Who you were thinking of. The one who made you weep."

His face darkened. "You said you didn't want to remind me of it," he said, turning the base of the glass in a circle on the tablecloth.

"No," I said, "but now that you've uncovered my agenda, it would feel false not to finish it." I had to know.

"All right," he said, "no, it wasn't Mary I was thinking of, though there are plenty of things that do make me think of her." He worried his lower lip with his teeth. "It's very simple, Holmes. Must I lay it out for you?"

"You were in love," I said, "but the person you loved died before you could consummate your love."

He huffed a laugh, derisive. "Something like that."

"You never told her at all," I said. "She didn't know."

"I was in love," Watson confirmed. "The… object of my affection… might have known." He looked up at met my eyes. "We were friends for a long time, and they might have noticed, but they died. I never knew whether they had found me out, nor how they felt in return."

I ruminated on that for a few moments. "Was it before or after you went to war?"

"No more," he said, frowning. "It is a private affair, I'm afraid, and a tender subject. I should like to keep it as tightly wrapped up as I can. I don't like to think about it, if you don't mind."

It hurt me to think that he was suffering. I had prodded at the wound, now, and his pain was my fault. I cursed myself. He was frustrated with me and trying not to show it.

Well, I'd done a splendid job at ruining our dinner.

"Shall we go home?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, touching the box in his pocket. "If you please."

The sky had grown dark and the fog was setting in as we left, warm and heavy on our coats. Watson was silent on the ride back to Baker Street, and I stopped him just inside the front door.

"Please," I said, "I'm sorry if I've offended you."

He tried a smile, but he only looked tired and sad. "No need for that," he said. "You often offend me, for any number of ridiculous reasons, but this is not one of them." He pressed my hand between both of his. "Fear not, my friend; it is all forgotten."

Upstairs again, we changed out of our good coats and into clothes better suited for the sitting room. Watson set immediately to smoking three of his cigarettes in a row, and I watched him with lidded eyes. All was not forgotten, and he was lying again. _Damn_ him, I didn't know what to do.

Persist, I decided. Persist in my plan, at least until the end of the week. That morning, when I had gone out, I had ordered flowers to be delivered tomorrow at two in the afternoon. It was an absurd thing to do, more ridiculous than the cufflinks, but I had already done it and there was no going back. I sucked on my unlit pipe, deep in contemplation, until long after Watson retired.

 _They_ , I thought. Why _they_?

\---

I awoke to the sound of rain battering against my window panes. It was early, just after seven, and I lay for a few long minutes dozing, glad for the respite from the heat. Eventually I heard Watson come downstairs, and I drew myself out of bed to meet him. Pulling on my dressing gown, I emerged into the sitting room to find him in his favourite armchair, the newspaper already delivered and in his hands.

"Good morning, Holmes," he said, without looking over the paper. "I fear we are in for a bout of weather."

"Surely not," I said, looking out the window at the grey river that had been Baker Street.

Watson snorted. "If you would but observe," he said, and he was grinning when I turned to him.

"Very droll," I said. "How did you sleep?"

"Passably well. One does tend to when one is not interrupted in the small hours to be off on a perilous adventure."

"I strive to only offer you one perilous adventures a month," I said. I dug out a pinch of tobacco from the Persian slipper and filled my pipe. Once it was lit, I returned to the window to watch the rivulets of rain.

"And for that, my sleep and I are very grateful."

He was being facetious, of course. He doesn't mind a bit being interrupted for the sake of a mystery. But he was not ruminating over last night, and for that I was grateful.

Watson received a telegram over breakfast— eggs, bacon, black pudding, potatoes, and toast, all of which felt too heavy in my stomach after so indulgent a meal as supper had been— and muttered a curse under his breath as he read it.

"Something amiss?" I asked. "A patient?"

He nodded, wiping his mouth on his napkin and standing up. "Mrs Fillimore is gone into labour a full two weeks early, and I told them I'd be available; I think she prefers me to the midwife, God knows why." He looked out at the streaming rain and shook his head. "I'd better be off. Back by lunch, I hope."

I hoped so, too. He vanished upstairs and appeared some minutes later, fully dressed, hair combed, with his medical bag under his arm. He was wearing the cuff links and studs, and they gleamed at his wrists and throat. "Wish me luck finding a cab," he said, reaching for his overcoat.

"Luck," I called after him as he descended the stairs to our front door. I heard it open, the sound of rain increasing, and close again. The pause had been long enough that I decided he had taken an umbrella from the stand by the door, and that he was not feeling optimistic about the cab.

He was gone for seven hours. Three hours before he returned, Mrs Hudson brought me a sandwich. We had stood together at the window, worrying about the good Doctor, and she'd promised to keep something for him if he came back before supper.

The flowers arrived a little after that, and I set them self-consciously on his desk. They were a little wet, but shaking them off too hard might be inadvisable, so I put a small hand towel down under the vase to keep his papers dry. I had a bit of work to do, an experiment to finish, and I tried to focus on that, but the flowers kept catching my eye. I was blushing, alone in the flat, over a vase full of lilies. I felt ridiculous.

When he finally did arrive, he was damp and clearly miserable. I could tell by his tread on the stairs. His old wound was paining him and he was taking nearly twice the normal amount of time he usually took to arrive at the sitting room door. I had just started a titration and paused to watch the door open.

"Is everything all right?" I asked. "Welcome back, by the way."

"Thank you," he said, shrugging off his wet coat and hanging it up on the tree behind the door. "Yes, everything is fine."

"Good." I turned back to the titration and began to squeeze the acid again, drop by drop.

"Mother and child are fine," he went on, knowing I was listening. "A bit shaken up, though, so I'll need to go back in a few days to see how they are."

"Was there a very great deal of blood?" I asked. There were spots of blood on the elbows of his shirt sleeves, where he had rolled them up in an attempt to save them. I hoped the links had gone safely into his pockets, and then chastised myself for worrying. He was not so careless.

"I don't know how I am still surprised at the capacity of the human body," he said. "A veritable ocean." He was taking off his boots now, and I heard the sound of him sliding his feet into his house slippers. "But, as I say, everyone was all right. Mr Fillimore was white as a sheet when I—" He paused, and I knew he had reached his desk.

I waited.

"Holmes," he said slowly, and out of the corner of my eye I watched him smile, reach out and finger a lily petal carefully.

I feigned disinterest, my pipette poised and dripping slowly. "Yes?"

"Are these for me as well?"

"Of course they are, my dear boy." The titration was very close to completion now, and I needed to watch for the colour change. "I'm not going to cease my campaign to improve your spirits simply because you have discovered it."

"If I didn't know better," Watson mused, "I might think you were courting me."

I froze. The room was painfully quiet. Outside, I could hear the rain on the pavement and the noise of the afternoon traffic in the wet street. My titration turned pink. I looked at him. "Do you know better?" I asked. I scarcely recognised my own voice.

He laughed, but it sounded false. His face was flushed and he stepped quickly away from the flowers. As I watched him with my heart in my throat, I realised something. In his expression, rather than merely anxiety (that I might be a homosexual, that I might be sweet on him), I had seen a brief flicker of hope (that I might be a homosexual, that I might be sweet on him). _They,_ I thought. Not _she._

I stood up. He turned suddenly, towards the window, and I crossed the room in record time.

"Watson," I said, reaching his side.

"Yes, Holmes?" He was as breathless as I felt.

"I have an admission to make."

"Do go on," he said.

"I'm not— I'm not sure how to go about it, exactly."

"Please, do it quickly, I'm not sure I can stand the suspense." He was practically vibrating with suppressed emotion.

"I should not like to lose your friendship over this," I said, "but I am afraid I am quite fantastically, desperately in love with you."

For a long, painful moment he was silent, and then he said, " _Bloody hell!_ " with such vehemence that I stepped back in surprise. He turned away from the window and reached for me, catching my hands in his own. "Holmes, no," he said, "it isn't possible."

"I beg your pardon?" It was very much possible. It had been quite possible for over ten years.

"It isn't possible for you to lose my friendship," he said, crushing my hands to his bosom, "and certainly not over an admission so heartbreakingly wonderful as that."

I sagged with relief, my knees going weak. "Really," I said. My head was swimming.

"Really," he replied. "Truly, and honestly, I have never heard a more welcome thing in my life."

"Really?"

"My dear man," he said, and lifted my captured hands to his lips, pressing a careful kiss to my left and right fingertips in turn. "I thought I was going mad. First the play that you absolutely hated— don't deny it, Holmes, I know you— and that magnificent dinner, then the new studs? You _were_ courting me. _Hell_."

"I wasn't," I said, "not intentionally. Although I suppose I was, actually."

His smile was broad and beautiful, and I had missed it so. "I accept," he said.

I raised an eyebrow.

"Your offer of courtship," he said, hesitating. "I accept?"

"Good," I said quickly, catching up again— God, I hated to feel like a fool, but I hadn't the slightest idea where to put my feet in a conversation like this. Hopefully not into my mouth. "Because now that I've begun I'm not sure I will be able to stop until I've won you completely."

"Oh, Holmes." Watson shook his head and let go of my hands to cup my face in both of his. "You've managed that." His fingers were warm and gentle on my cheeks, and our faces were very close together now. "Ages ago," he whispered.

I could feel his breath against my lips. His blue eyes were sparkling with a kind of secret joy that I had never seen before. I rested my hands against his waistcoat, feeling the warmth of his body.

"Watson," I said.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Will you kiss me, please, and put me out of my misery, or are you going to stand there all evening, staring?"

He pressed his lips to mine, firmly, and I could _feel_ his smile. I clutched his waistcoat, trying to pull him closer. My nerves sang to touch him like this. He slid his fingers into my hair, caressing, holding me, and we traded shy kisses for a few long, perfect moments before we began to gain confidence. I parted my lips, and he followed suit, and soon I had my arms around him, and his around my shoulders, and we learned the shape of one another's mouths. He tasted like ships' tobacco and tea, and it felt so familiar that I almost couldn't believe we hadn't done this before. I lost myself there, in his arms, three steps from the window. I was glad for the rain, for I knew no one would be inclined to look up from the street.

Watson pulled himself reluctantly from our kisses, and stroked my now entirely tousled hair away from my face. "Holmes," he murmured, "this is rather unexpected. I'm not sure what— what to do next."

I pressed a kiss to his palm and another to his lips, intoxicated by the permission granted. "My dear boy," I said, "there is so much that we could do next, I'm not sure where to start."

"No, no," he said, "I know that. I—" and he blushed, dear God. My Watson, a war hero, a widower, and the flatmate of a man like me, blushed at the thought of carnal relations. "I have a bit of experience," he went on, and my eyebrows shot up. "Don't look at me like that," he chided, smirking, "there are some things about me you don't know."

"Perish the thought," I said, tightening my arms around him. He was aroused, I could feel him against my leg. I was in much the same state, excited by his kisses and the mention of more.

There was a tap on the sitting room door, loud as a gunshot. We sprang apart, as though we had been struck by lightning. I found myself back at my bench, uncertain how I had got there, and Mrs Hudson was opening up the door.

"Oh, Doctor," she said, "I thought I heard you come home."

"Yes," he said, smoothing out his waistcoat. His hands were shaking. "Just a few minutes ago."

"Was everything all right?" she asked. "Have you eaten?"

Watson smiled, visibly calming himself. "Quite all right," he said. "They just had a nasty scare, but nothing to worry about now."

"Good." She had begun to tidy up the mess I had made in Watson's absence, scattering papers and notebooks around the room. I bristled at her intrusion, now palpable in her handling of my things.

"Mrs Hudson," I snapped, "was there something you wanted in particular, or should you and the Doctor like to go down to the kitchen to chatter like a flock of birds?"

Watson glared at me reproachfully, but our landlady only 'tsk'ed and dropped my notebooks on the end of my bench with some force.

"I was not speaking to you, Mr Holmes," she said. "Just three hours ago, you were afraid for the Doctor's state. You looked out from that very window and said to me, 'I hope he is not much longer,' and I said, 'The rain does not appear to be letting up,' and you were kind enough to remind me that you were not blind."

I flushed furiously and scooped up my notebooks. I stuffed them back into their places in the bookshelf, refusing to acknowledge either her or Watson.

"I'll bring you something for supper," Mrs Hudson said more softly. "I suppose his Highness will not be dining."

Watson snorted. "No," he said, "I suppose not."

When she had gone, and left the sitting room door open, Watson said, "Well, that was unnecessary."

I scowled. She had startled me. I had spoken more harshly to her in better circumstances, I thought, though it wasn't a decent justification.

"After supper," he said, "we will continue our conversation."

Swallowing hard, I turned around to face him. He just smiled at me, like he'd had the whole thing planned, but I could detect a hint of apprehension in his face.

"Yes," I said, "we certainly will."

The wait was torture. I returned with half of my attention to my experiment and found it mostly ruined. My absence from the table had turned the titration into an incomprehensible mess, but at least the colour had changed. I hadn't managed to write down the quantity of solution I had used, however, and I would need to start over. Halfheartedly, I began to prepare the reagents to begin again, but I kept being drawn back to my Watson, who was shooting my furtive looks every few seconds, assessing me.

His supper arrived and he picked at it, discarding forkfuls of the meal as unsatisfactory, or at least not enough to hold his interest.

I looked at the clock on the mantle. It was just a quarter past seven. Mrs Hudson wouldn't be abed until at least nine, and we usually turned in past ten. She might come upstairs if there were a client, or if we absolutely needed something, but it was unlikely that she would be back after supper.

Nevertheless, we could barely get away with a minor row without her coming up to see what was the matter. Sexual congress was entirely out of the question. At least until she had gone to bed.

Watson seemed to sense my predicament. He pushed his plate away. "Shall we play cards?" he asked.

"God," I said, thumping my elbows down on my desk in displeasure, "please never suggest something so horrible ever again."

"But you're very good at cribbage."

"Yes, and I abhor it. I play it in society drawing rooms and at my brother's awful club, and I should not like to play it with you."

He huffed. "Then what do you suggest we do this evening?"

I put down my glass vials, praying for patience. "Well," I said finally.

"Before that," he interrupted.

"We cannot go for a walk," I said, as if that was what I had been meaning to say, "but I could entertain you with a story of an old case, if you like."

His smile was a reward in itself. "I should like that very much, actually. It should pass the time."

I got up from my desk and moved to sit in my armchair instead. I fetched my violin from its case and cradled it in my arms, and began to pluck at its strings absently, thinking.

Watson shifted from the dinner table to the settee, and sat facing me, one elbow up on the back of the sofa, his attention already fixed on me.

"Ah," I said finally, "the orphan girl's tiara. You'll like that one."

\---

At some point in the narrative, Mrs Hudson returned to take the supper away, and Watson patted her hand and told her I was very sorry for my attitude. I wasn't, of course, and we all knew it, but she accepted his apology gracefully and kissed him on the cheek. Then she gave me a look that communicated quite clearly what she thought of me— extreme exasperation, tempered with the fondness one reserves for family (or near enough to it)— and left us to our evening.

All in all, it passed fairly quickly. After I had amused Watson with the story of one of my first colossal failures, he set to reading a book and I managed to occupy myself with cutting up the newspaper and pasting a few interesting columns into my most current notebook. There was a rash of burglaries in Pimlico and it might become relevant.

When the clock struck nine, I looked up hopefully from my work to find Watson regarding me with some great deal of interest.

"I think I shall go to bed," he said, closing his book.

"But, what about—"

"I think I shall _go_ to _bed_ ," he said again, raising his eyebrows and jerking his head meaningfully towards the stairs.

I was out of my depth. "Right," I said. "Yes, well, goodnight."

Watson rolled his eyes and stood up. He crossed the room to my desk and leaned down to press a soft kiss to my cheek, spreading warmth through me. "I hope," he murmured in my ear, "you might see fit to join me, at your leisure."

I closed my eyes, overcome. I nodded once, at once irritated at myself for not immediately understanding his invitation, and giddy with want and excitement. I put down my materials carefully and brushed off my hands. We looked at one another for a moment, he smiling and me wide-eyed, and then he left the room without another word.

I went to my bedroom. Should I change into my nightshirt? I wondered. Should I wait a few minutes? Should I go as I was, this minute, overeager and unashamed?

I changed into my nightshirt and put on my dressing gown. Returning to the sitting room, I turned down the lamps. The house was dark and quiet, but the light from the room upstairs led me, surefooted, in that direction.

Watson was waiting at the top of the stairs, also in his pyjamas and dressing gown. His feet were bare, and the intimacy of it gave me such a thrill. I took his proffered hand. His broad, warm fingers were as familiar as my own, and I squeezed them. His beloved face was illuminated by the lamp he held, and the flickering light whispered secrets; the hollow of his throat was bare and vulnerable, the day's-end stubble on his chin was faintly gold, the nervous smile on his lips was shadowed.

"So," Watson said, drawing me into his bedroom and locking the door behind us, "I believe it would be safe to assume that you have… been with men before."

"As have you," I said.

"Yes," he admitted. "Once or twice."

"Once or twice," I agreed.

He sat down on the bed and set the lamp down on the table. I sat beside him, and our knees touched as we turned towards one another. I had never felt so nervous in my life. I have held a hundred midnight vigils, waiting for dangerous criminals who would sooner kill me as look at me, but now I was apprehensive. Watson was everything, and if we had gone astray here I would be nothing without him.

He placed one hand on my knee and with the other cupped my face, his thumb stroking over the cheek he had kissed earlier. I put my hands on his elbow and his shoulder, respectively. We were moving in slow motion, each assessing the other's reactions, planning our moves with great care. I slid my fingers towards the nape of his neck and he moved in to kiss me.

I met him eagerly, lips parted in welcome. He made a soft noise, almost a moan, and I was suddenly determined to hear that sound at the top of his voice, damn the consequences. I kissed him deeply, drawing him in and then pursuing him, and his hand on my knee tightened. His moustache ticked my lip, my cheek; serving only to inflame my desire.

Suddenly he was holding my face with both hands and kissing me ferociously, as if he had just noticed that he had me and I wasn't running away. I returned his ardour with everything I had, clutching at him. I was ready to climb into his lap that minute, had he not pulled away just as abruptly to stare into my eyes. I fisted my hands in his dressing gown, determined to never again let him go beyond an arm's length from me. In the low light of the lamp his gaze was fathomless: dark and intent.

"How should you like to do it?" he asked.

I snorted. "My dear boy," I said, "don't treat it like a chore. I should like to do anything your heart, et cetera, desires."

He licked his lips, uncertain. It seemed we were at an impasse.

I said, "Shall we, er, shall we lie down?"

"Yes, yes, that sounds like a splendid idea."

We did so, me on the inside, my back to the wall, and he on the outside. Once there, we stared at each other some more. After a moment, he smiled as though embarrassed and touched his fingers to my neck.

"It's only," he said, and stopped.

"I know." I covered his hand with mine and kissed him again. That seemed to set us into motion, for soon we were pressed tightly together, our hands roving, never ceasing our kiss to breathe or think. He ran his hand down my side and up my back, pulling me towards him, and I jolted when our hips met. His arousal was becoming quite evident, pressing against my own, and I felt him sigh. My own hand was planted firmly in the small of his back, but I took advantage of the closeness to slide it down to cup one cheek of his perfect arse. He slid his leg between my thighs and urged my own over his hip. Our embrace tightened further.

He found the bottom edge of my nightshirt, ridden up to mid-thigh. I hissed, "Yes," into his mouth, and he continued, sliding his palm up my leg and over my bare hip. I held my breath. He only hesitated for a fraction of a moment before he curled his fingers around me, and I groaned aloud.

That must have startled him, for I felt him jerk, but he did not let go. He gave me a tentative squeeze, testing my reaction. I clamped my teeth together to keep from making a noise as the pleasure rushed through me.

"No," he murmured, "you only surprised me; don't hold back."

I moaned in relief, kissing him again. "My self-restraint has been quite tried recently," I said.

He let go of my prick, much to my chagrin, but he curled his hand around my bare hip and said, "Will you get on top of me, please?"

"Oh," I gasped, "with pleasure." Together we rolled, and I ended up straddling him, my knees spread wide, my elbows planted on either side of his head. Staring down at him, I had to stop to catch my breath. His lips were parted as if in surprise, and his eyes were a deep, impossible blue in the lamplight. His hands moved smoothly up my sides, skimming my nightshirt from my body. He reached my arms and I sat up, yanking the nightshirt and dressing gown together over my head.

"Holmes," he whispered. I resisted the urge to cover myself and instead knelt naked above him, lit by the lamp, watching him look at me. I observed the expressions flickering across his face— lust, amazement, curiosity, desire, shyness, and determination— and caught his hands as they slid down my body again, lacing our fingers together.

"John," I said, "shall I call you John now?"

"Yes, I rather think so," he laughed.

"John, we seem to have a slight imbalance in our dress."

"We do," he agreed. His eyes were alight with wicked intention. "I'm not sure I object."

"I object extremely," I said, letting go of his hands to begin to pluck at the buttons of his pyjama shirt. The fine fabric came apart easily, baring him inch by inch to my eyes. I had seen him in various states of undress before, but the permission to look and touch changed everything. I dragged my fingers over the splendid crop of hair on Watson's chest, following it down as I undid buttons to the dip of his navel and below, where it tapered and vanished teasingly beneath his trousers. Again, I was tremendously aware of my own nakedness. Instead of dwelling on it, I pushed his shirt back and lowered my forehead to the centre of his chest, breathing in deeply the smell of his body. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and kissed the top of my head.

I opened my mouth against his skin, stuck out my tongue and tasted him. There was so much I didn't know about him, so many minutiae that I had always been obsessed with, and I was determined to learn it all. Though, I doubted he would let me do it all in one night. His erection brushed against mine, so tempting, and I lowered my hips carefully, settling my weight on his thighs.

"Yes," he said, loosening his arms to grip my hips and push me firmly down against him. We were separated only by the fabric of his trousers, thin as they were, and the heat of his groin felt as though it would burn me. I lifted my head and he met my gaze for a moment before he pulled me into another devouring kiss. I braced myself on his shoulders as he rocked up into me, rubbing our pricks together. His hands nearly spanned the whole of my hipbones, his thumbs in the hollows of my abdomen and his fingers digging into the flesh of my arse. He worked my body against his, moving me as he pleased. My gut was tight with desire, my prick stiff and leaking.

I dipped my head again. I had to know more. I found the flat, soft bud of his nipple and began to worry it with my tongue until it tightened into a peak and he was gasping. He let go of one of my hips to plant that hand on the back of my head, encouraging me to stay. I scraped him gently with my teeth, which made him arch. I soothed the bite with my lips, and he shuddered. Similar treatment to the other nipple gave much the same result, but plucking at the one while I licked the other had him squirming and cursing, my name sweet and desperate in his mouth. He felt huge under his trousers, and I had to have them off him.

Sliding off his lap made him scramble to keep me, but I pushed him back down and pulled at his trousers until he lifted his hips and let me tug them down to his knees. He kicked them the rest of the way off, and I closed my hand around his thick erection.

"Please," he said, bucking into my grasp. I urged his legs apart and planted my foot between his knees, turning on my side so that I could touch him and kiss him at the same time. He wrapped one arm around my shoulders, his hand in the centre of my back, and I tucked myself as close to him as I could get, the warmth of his body seeping into mine. My own cock prodded his hip and side. He turned his face away for a moment and I took advantage of it to kiss his cheek, the corner of his jaw behind his ear, the pulse in his neck.

I stroked him slowly, watching and feeling his reactions. He pushed his hips up when I gripped him tightly, and his fingers clenched and slid on my back when I slid the pad of my thumb across his sensitive glans, smearing fluid. He pressed his cheek against my chest, gasping aloud when I rolled his foreskin up around his head and pulled it away again.

"Faster, now," he murmured, "please." I could feel the heat of his face against my skin.

I worked him faster, my hand slipping easily, and tightened my hand until he groaned. He began to bite at my clavicle— not hard, just digging his teeth in where he could reach. He was losing control, I realised, his whole body flexing, his toes curling, his mouth open and wanting. His eyes were shut tight, his expression one of anguish and ecstasy.

"God, oh God," I heard him say, and he reached blindly for me with his free hand, gripping my side. "Sherlock!"

"Yes," I said into his ear, "come on, love, yes."

He muffled his cry against my shoulder as he reached his peak, spilling over my fingers. He shook, spasmed, and groaned deeply in relief. I coaxed another shudder out of him, along with a soft laugh, and reluctantly let go.

In a swift movement, Watson had pushed me onto my back. I spread my legs wide. My body hummed with desire, and the first touch of his hand had me nearly shouting aloud. I was so close to my death already, giving him pleasure and watching him climax having worked me into such a desperate state. He kissed me, opening my mouth and delving inside, and I moaned my release against his lips as I trembled.

We lay still for a moment, his hand still cupped around me, and then he rolled away to turn down the lamp. I closed my eyes.

"Will you stay?" he asked, curling up beside me once more in the dark. The linens had been thoroughly disrupted by our activities, and I found the edge of the sheet to wipe my hand off. I pulled it over both of us in answer. I felt him smile against my shoulder, and he kissed my cheek almost shyly. He was like a furnace there beside me, and though the night was warm I couldn't bring myself to move away.

A minute, or an hour, later, I felt him shift again.

"It was you," he whispered.

"Mm?"

"You were the one who died, you damn fool." He had tucked his arm across my middle, and his grip tightened.

There was nothing to see in his dark room, only the stars beyond the window. I stared nonetheless, astonished. He was right to call me a fool. I had solved my case quite by accident, and its conclusion had been closer to home than I might have ever imagined. His taste in music should have told me everything: the only thing he had ever truly hated was that I'd left him behind.

I turned to face him, and in the dark pressed my forehead against his temple. "I'm sorry," I said. "You must know."

"I know," he replied, breath against my ear.

\---

Watson was still abed when I awoke, but he was not asleep. He was watching me, his head propped up on one elbow, smiling as I opened my eyes.

"Good morning, Holmes," he said softly.

"What a splendid morning it is," I agreed, reaching up to touch his face. He leaned down to kiss me, and I demanded more. Even the sour sleep taste of him was pleasing, and I sighed happily. He pressed me back into the bed and I urged him with hands and knees to settle between my thighs, gloriously naked. He kissed me until I was breathless, hungry for more, and then he kissed me through another spectacular orgasm, we rocking together and groping desperately at all the bare skin we could reach.

Afterwards, we lay for a while side by side in his narrow bed, the sheet half covering us. He was growing restless, probably hungry, and I had abandoned work that needed done.

"I shall need another new case," I said absently. "As satisfying as the solution to that one was, it did not require as much brainwork as they usually do."

"You had a case this week?" Watson asked, turning his head on the pillow to look at me in surprise. "You did not tell me."

"Not to worry, my dear fellow," I replied, smiling. "You were well involved."

  
  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Courting Sherlock Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11454150) by [A_Candle_For_Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/pseuds/A_Candle_For_Sherlock)




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